Laws of Decay
by hollelujahs
Summary: A silent woman, an angry vampire, and a boy who wishes he could scream. An Edwardian exercise in angst. Short story, AU.
1. Prologue

_Lift not the painted veil which those who live_

_Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,_

_And it but mimic all we would believe_

_With colours idly spread, - behind, lurk Fear_

_And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave_

_Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear._

_I knew one who had lifted it - he sought,_

_For his lost heart was tender, things to love,_

_But found them not, alas! nor was there aught_

_The world contains, the which he could approve._

_Through the unheeding many he did move,_

_A splendour among shadows, a bright blot_

_Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove_

_For truth, and like the Preacher found it not._

* * *

The heavens promised a storm.

Crimson eyes narrowed, (a reflex borne purely of muscle memory — it had been a hundred years since their master had needed to squint) noting the swell of dark clouds swallowing the grey expanse beyond the trees. The window superimposed the man's reflection onto the spectacle of angry skies: sharp lines and pale skin, leonine features, the grim set of a tense jaw.

The man blinked once, bringing into focus the reflection of the delicate lines of the creature in the room behind him. To the ignorant observer she could have been a doll, a porcelain mannequin positioned to recline listlessly in her chair, her beauty marred only by the dark circles beneath her dull red eyes.

"She's frightened," Jasper sighed from behind his book on the other side of the room.

Edward nodded, fighting memories from a bedroom of the past, the feel of soft hair and warm skin and the rhythm of a pulse that sounded a march beneath the music of her voice. "I know."

Jasper eyed him skeptically. "Oh?"

"Her father used to preach that storms were the wrath of God come to earth," Edward muttered, staring out at the coming storm. "It stayed with her."

Satisfied, Jasper nodded and resumed his reading.

Beside the hearth, the woman's stillness threw into sharp relief the lively jump of flames within the fireplace. Edward turned from the window, moving toward her in what had become a reflexive action, his limbs seeking the proximity of his only solace. He lifted his hand to the sleekness of her hair, stroking down to the pale curve of her neck.

"You're safe," he told her softly, the words bitter on his tongue.

Silence.

Edward moved his hand away from her skin, fingers clenching into a fist as he collapsed into the chair beside her, his gaze intent on the fire. He focused on the scent of her, the feel of the chair's fabric beneath his hands, the sound of a mongrel heartbeat coming from a room downstairs.

His first days here with her were hellish, the long hours of her transformation crawling by with slow and inexorable cruelty as she screamed, screamed, screamed until the walls trembled, the forest seeming to echo every gasp of her agony. He'd remained at her bedside, unable to tear himself away as her every beloved softness hardened, her weak body beaten, stripped and fortified until it rose from her bed, a blank and terrible fortress of silk and steel and silence — as her screams faded away, so did the rest of her.

She had been silent, blank for twenty years.

Never mind, Edward told himself at first. He could appreciate silence. After all, her thoughts had always been hidden from him, mysteries shrouded within her delicate skull and hinted at only by the soft rhythms of her voice, the steady song of her pulse. He could look at her, touch her, content himself with the knowledge that she was his at last, beautiful as ever, the silence of her mind an eternal balm to the frayed ends of his spirit. Never mind the caverns behind her crimson eyes, the blank set of her face — surely, time would soothe her and she would speak again.

But it had been twenty years; he'd moved beyond craving her voice, her thoughts, her sounds, and the furious, lashing hunger for her had long since colored his every moment. He was left with nothing more than the empty shell of his perfect match, her absent beauty a ceaseless reminder of choices that rankled him even as he hovered over her still, a dumb beast guarding the remains of prey long since decayed.

Everything gone — his Isabella was her own ghost.

And he was angry.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

**This is me scratching an itch. Thanks for reading.**


	2. Body of Missing Preacher Found

Port Angeles Evening News, 1906

**Body of Missing Minister is Found**

_Such is the Belief in the Discovery Made Near Forks_

By United Press.

Port Angeles, W., March 23 — The mysterious disappearance of Rev. C.M. SWAN, pastor of the Methodist church of Port Angeles on February 3, was recalled today by the finding of the mutilated body of a man near the Clallam county children's home three miles from here.

The body was found last night by EARNEST TINCKNELL, a rural mail carrier. Parts of the head and trunk had been eaten away by animals. Authorities in charge of the investigation have not been able to determine the cause of death.

Rev. SWAN was walking in the direction of home when he was last seen by acquaintances in this vicinity. Mrs. SWAN, wife of the missing pastor, has offered a reward for information regarding the fate of her husband.

SWAN was about 60 years of age and the father of one daughter. He was an officer in the Washington anti-saloon league.

He conducted a religious meeting at Port Angeles Methodist church on the night he disappeared. For three days Clallam county was searched by a large party on the theory that the minister had either been murdered or had committed suicide.


	3. Alec Fawley

_"I think that whenever children be born that are not wanted _

_they should be killed directly, _

_before their souls come to 'em, _

_and not allowed to grow big and walk about!" _

* * *

_1926_

"Odd things tuck themselves away here. We're in a corner of the world where no one thinks to look for them," Grandma Stengle told Alec one afternoon, her head nodding in time to the rocking of her chair.

At ninety-one years old, she was the oldest person Alec had ever seen, and the most interesting. She was full of stories, real ones — like coming west to Washington in a wagon at the end of the War Between the States, or seeing Washington's first railroad, built before the Great War pulled so many men off their farms.

She was also a reliable source for plenty of fun, outlandish tales, swearing up and down there was an Indian tribe west of Clallam County whose men could turn into wolves and had done so once, right before her very eyes.

"Them Quileutes ain't natural," she declared.

Whether the stories were true or not, Grandma Stengle told them and told them often, and nobody in the overcast corner of the world that called itself Sequim cared enough to argue with her.

While many tried their best to ignore Grandma Stengle's nonsense, Alec found himself transfixed by her, spending hours of his summers chewing on a blade of the wheatgrass that grew by her porch as she spoke. He listened to her intently, braiding and pulling the overgrown weeds within his reach and wishing he could tell her some stories of his own. Wishing he hadn't been born too soon into a body too weak, wishing he wasn't mute.

Of course, there were doctors and treatments and other things down in the city, but only a handful of townsfolk had their own motorcar, and the cost of paying a neighbor for a half-day drive to the city would only be the beginning of an undertaking that would doubtless take more money than Alec Fawley or his mother could ever hope to see.

"Of course," Grandma Stengle continued, oblivious to the wandering mind of her audience, "There was that business quite awhile back with that preacher in P.A., the whole family up in arms with him getting et and that girl disappearing, least that's what I was told and you never can tell with those shifters what's true and what's one of their cotton-headed spook stories. Such a pretty girl, too — the one who disappeared — the prettiest one in town, I've heard. Such a shame, and she never stood a chance. But it makes sense… of course it makes sense. Don't you see?"

Alec nodded like always and like always, Grandma Stengle continued.

"Not that women can't disappear without a valid excuse these days," she sighed. "Always moving on to the next place to hide their vices and those ill-gotten bastards from the men they string along."

Her words picked at a deep-seated wound, his stomach sinking as he thought of Ma, her sad eyes and beautiful hair. She was caught equally by drink and melancholy, failing to do much of anything except make a fool of herself over a married man. At least, that's what Grandma Stengle said.

But he knew it was true. People in town sometimes smiled sadly as Alec passed them in the street, whispering to each other about that Jane Fawley, bless her soul, and how she wasn't ever the same since her old man enlisted to show the Huns a thing or two, only to catch a shot in the chest somewhere in France for his trouble.

Together, Alec and his mother both existed on the outskirts of Sequim — the mute, scrawny boy and the vice-ridden widow. His mother came and went as she pleased, a source of little comfort and endless tirades.

"At least that Jane Fawley's got a friend in Mayor Thorsen," he'd overheard Mrs. Cope say more than once, her thin lips set in a catty smirk, and hated her for saying it.

But Mrs. Cope's wagging tongue was the least of his problems. _I can hear you_, Alec wanted to scream back, but the words stayed trapped in his mind in an endless, maddening cycle, becoming his own special kind of white noise.

In spite of it all, there was some form of comfort to be found in Sequim's predictable patterns and familiar faces. There was even some comfort in his own role as the runt, and his days were spent as a shadow, consigned to an endless, peaceful insignificance as he nodded and listened to Grandma Stengle's stories.

And then one day, a stranger came to town.


	4. The Stranger

_"By moving to a spot a little way off he uncovered the horizon _

_in a north-easterly direction. _

_There actually rose a faint halo, a small dim nebulousness, _

_hardly recognizable save by the eye of faith."_

* * *

"Fawley!"

Alec flinched, straightening as the Biers twins approached, their coveralls splattered with mud and paint. They were similar in coloring and temperament but not in size — Riley's lanky, lean figure was utterly insignificant beside Felix's massive bulk. One was never seen without the other, something the townsfolk had long ago come to accept. It was charming, their closeness.

But the charm of their partnership was lost on Alec Fawley.

"Nothing to say?" Riley taunted, as if sound from Alec's throat wasn't blood from a stone. "Talk, mush-mouth."

A lifetime of torment from the town bullies meant there was no real surprise when the rock hit the garage wall only inches from his ear. He was an easy target for Sequim's young-buck boys, their strong hands always pushing and punching and poking to get a reaction. People saw, but no one ever stopped them because boys will be boys, Ma told him once.

"That dumb piker can't talk, but I bet he can squeal," Felix crowed. "Just gotta find the right spot is all."

Another rock flew, this one finding its target on one of Alec's bony shoulders. Jerking in pain, his mouth opened in a soundless cry.

Heavy footsteps sounded from around the corner, and the Biers twins quickly lost their smirks.

"What the hell—" Mr. Olsen yelled, rounding the corner of his gas station. He wasn't as large as Felix, but his temper was as legendary as his Scandinavian accent was thick. "I will not tell you two again — leave him be! Now beat it!"

Olsen sighed as the Biers boys ran, looking down at Alec with an expression of pity and annoyance. "You got a customer."

Relieved, Alec shuffled behind him to the front of the station until the sight before him stopped him in his tracks. There at the fuel pump sat a Cadillac, a great black demon of a car, it's dark hulk and silver accents gleaming like the sun over the Sound.

The driver sat motionlessly behind the wheel, his head inclined slightly forward as if deep in thought. He looked up as Alec came closer, his eyes were obscured by a pair of sunglasses.

"Fill it up, please."

Alec complied, fighting the clumsiness that accompanied the feeling of being watched from behind those dark, dark glasses. In his peripheral, he saw Mr. Olsen standing on the other side of the station window, his narrowed eyes staring suspiciously at the stranger's automobile.

But the man seemed nonplussed, holding out a coin when Alec was finished. As Alec reached for his tip, the man's long, pale fingers moved quickly, encircling his scrawny wrist. "Your hands are filthy," he mused, scrutinizing Alec's grubby fingernails. "Mind the car."

_Sorry_, Alec mouthed, pulling away.

But the stranger's grip remained firm. "You're the town mute," he said, a strange smile curling lips too red for his pallid complexion. "Alec."

Stunned, Alec nodded, his mind running through possibilities. Mrs. Cope, he thought, annoyed. Mrs. Cope and her big, fat mouth—

"Alec is short for Alexander, I presume."

Alec nodded again, fighting the shiver threatening to run up his spine at the chill of the man's words and grip.

"A fine name, that. I believe it means 'defender of men.'" The stranger's smile grew, showcasing very straight, very white teeth. "A bit ironic. I saw those boys giving you trouble. But one can't help one's name," he mused, releasing Alec's hand, smiling as the boy flinched away from the ice of his touch.

"Alexander Fawley, it has been a pleasure."

* * *

Later in the day, Alec's walk home was accompanied by a drizzle which turned into raindrops, growing fatter and faster and soaking the top of his cap, darkening the faded grey of his shirt. He quickened his pace, remembering the fuss Ma made the last time he'd gotten sick. A burden, she'd sighed as he'd shivered with fever. The boy couldn't help but be a burden.

The roar of a motor sounded behind him and he took a step away from the road, looking to see who would pass.

"It's going to storm," the stranger from earlier informed him from within his great black beast of a Cadillac, his eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses in spite of the overcast weather. "Seems like you could use a ride."

Uneasy, Alec hesitated.

"I'm not sure," the man continued, "but I believe I saw those Biers boys coming down the way. Climb in."

As if to emphasize his offer, a thunderclap sounded loudly overhead. After another second's hesitation, Alec walked around to the passenger door and climbed in.

"Forgive me," the stranger declared, watching as Alec tugged awkwardly at this sodden clothes, soiling the fine upholstery. "We haven't been properly introduced. Alexander Fawley, I'm Edward Cullen."

Alec acknowledged the introduction with quick nod and a stiff smile, and the car jolted into motion. Mr. Cullen glanced outside, noting the weather with something like satisfaction.

"You must be more careful," he chided, smiling as if something amused him greatly. "You could have caught your death out here."

The car continued down the road, watching the wind blow the rain sideways. A bolt of lightning flashed in the northern distance, a jagged streak of white over the grey-blue waters of Dungeness Bay.

So intently was Alec focused on the sight that he did not notice the sweet smell of the chloroform until the rag was pressed directly against his mouth. He fought and faded into a darkness of whispers and thunder, floating through silence and stars and, eventually, the faint sound of a faraway song.


	5. The Forest Manse

_"It is a difficult question, my friends, for any young man… _

_whether to follow uncritically the track he finds himself in, _

_without considering his aptness for it, _

_or to consider what his aptness or bent may be, _

_and reshape his course accordingly."_

* * *

Alec fought against the soft white edges of unconsciousness, trying to will himself out of his stupor, pulling in deep and steady breaths. It was hard not to succumb to the sleep that dragged at him, pulling him down with soft, warm fingers….

"Sick again," Grandma Stengle sighed. "Poor thing. Surprised he's made it this long."

His mother's bitter laugh was her only rejoinder.

"Get up."

The deep, unfamiliar voice cut through the ether, an invisible blade through a dream. He had been home, he was sure of it, he could smell the the wood-burning stove, the air heavy with smoke and the ash his mother swore was out to kill them both—

He wandered back into the comfort of the familiar, a limp fish at the end of a line flashing briefly before morphing into the sight of his own bare feet in the mud of the cornfield behind Otis Springer's barn.

Alec looked to the sky , could almost feel the rare warmth of sunlight on his upturned face—

"Get _up_," the voice demanded again.

I can't, he thought crankily, relaxing further into the softness under his back.

"Last chance before I fetch the water-pail," the voice snapped.

Grudgingly, Alec opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar pattern of faded blue brocade that stretched above him, spanning to each side of the large bed. He blinked, confused. Memories of the stranger in the Cadillac rushed back and he stiffened, bolting up to check himself for injury and finding only that he was still fully clothed in his mud-stained dungarees and faded shirt.

"I'm Jacob. Alexander, is it?"

Beside the bed sat a young man, his face tanned beneath a mop of unruly black hair. Dark eyes stared back at him beneath a brow that seemed to be furrowed in annoyance, the energy of his massive frame barely contained by the walls of the dusty room.

Alec stared, wide-eyed and fighting the clutch of fear around his lungs.

_Who are you?_ he mouthed.

"Cat got your tongue?"

_Can't talk._

"Take a deep breath and try again."

Pointing to his lips, Alec shook his head.

Jacob smirked. "What, are you mute?"

Alec nodded.

"Jesus," he swore. "How old are you?"

Slowly, Alec held up one finger on his right hand and three on his left.

"Thirteen," Jacob muttered. "Well, that's just great."

He stood, walking to one of the large windows lining the far wall as Alec's breaths grew shorter, sharper.

"Concentrate," Mr. Olsen used to tell him when Alec was younger. "Pick something and stare until you are calm."

From his place on the bed he looked beyond the broad shoulders of Jacob, beyond the room's windows to where the thick cover of forest began, trees huddled densely as far as he could tell, their motionless branches intermingled to create an imposing tangle of firs and shadows. He focused on them, thinking of home, of how the branches there formed sparse, graceful webs against a wide grey sky, their leaves constantly dancing in the breeze off the bay.

_"You'll catch your death out here,"_ the stranger had laughed, and Alec's pulse quickened with the memory as Jacob turned around.

_Where am I? _Alec asked.

Jacob sighed. "What?"

He tried again.

"Nowhere you'd know." Jacob looked away for a moment. "You're probably hungry. Come on."

Alec followed Jacob into a hallway covered in faded cabbage rose wallpaper. Even in the dim light, the dishevelment of the building was apparent — dust covered every surface in layers, daring one to disrupt the sediment of time and abandon with a swipe of an errant finger.

They continued down the hall to a large staircase, its wide steps plushly carpeted and leading to a large foyer at the bottom. The grandness of the entrance loomed before them, an imposing set of doors that were taller than the roof of the Fawley's home.

Jacob followed his stare. "Don't bother running. You wouldn't make it thirty yards, and it only annoys him."

Alec remembered the Cadillac again, the stranger's cold smile before the rag was pushed against his face.

Jacob walked on, leading him through several rooms in various states of disrepair until they came to a large dining room. In spite of the dust, the room was overwhelming in its intended grandeur, its vast emptiness showcasing a long table that stretched across the space. The vacant chairs sat as eerie placeholders, spaces waiting for occupants that would never come again.

Alec's eye moved over the room, his sharp intake of breath seeming to echo against the walls as his gaze caught the large portrait above the mantlepiece.

A young woman looked back at him, her dark eyes staring out from beneath finely arched brows and a pile of mahogany hair. She had been captured sitting, reclined in her chair with elegant ease, one hand keeping place in the book in her lap, the other drooped gracefully over the arm of the chair. Pale and slender, a pretty face, slim neck and modest décolletage was showcased in luminous lines above her ivory dress, its lace sleeves settled daintily above the fine bones of her wrists. Her full lips were pink, curved into a small, knowing smile.

He'd seen similar dresses from the turn of the century — Grandma Stengle kept old McCall's, declaring modern fashion else to be scandalously indecent.

"I'd learn not to stare, if I were you," Jacob snapped.

Alec started at his sharp tone and looked away guiltily, trying in vain to ignore the dark, solemn eyes of the portrait that burned into him like coals on bare skin.

Suddenly, Jacob stiffened. "Never mind your supper," he sighed, his eyes turned upward. "We're being summoned."


	6. Local Girl Missing

Port Angeles Evening News, 1906

* * *

**LOCAL GIRL MISSING**

_Last Seen by Cousin on May I7, When She Took Train for Port Townsend._

By United Press.

The many friends of Miss Isabella Swan have appealed to The Evening News to unravel the mystery surrounding her disappearance on the morning of May 17.

On that day Miss Swan, accompanied by her cousin Michael of 185 West 5th st. went to the Florence Road station, where she took the 11.30 a.m. train for Port Townsend.

From the station at Port Townsend to her home the distance is about forty-seven miles, a large part of which is through wood land.

Inquiry at the Port Townsend station, as well as all other train and ferry stations between Port Angeles and Seattle, failed to find one person who had seen her since her leaving the station in Port Angeles.

She is 17 years old, 5 ft 3 in in height and slender. She wore a travel dress of light blue with matching topcoat, white shoes and gloves, white stockings and white underclothing. She has brown eyes and hair.

She carried about $20. A man's silver watch with the initials C.M.S. engraved into its casing and a silver chain may be on her person.


	7. Isabella

_"All her bounding manner was gone; _

_her curves of motion had become subdued lines."_

* * *

Alec's fingers were pale against the dark wood of the banister, palms clammy as he followed Jacob up flights of carpeted stairs to a short hallway and a set of double doors.

"Are you religious?" Jacob asked suddenly, all traces of his earlier pique gone.

Alec shook his head, and the older boy looked at him sadly before knocking.

"Come," a voice called from within.

The doors opened into an extravagantly large sitting room, long and narrow, shrouded in shadows and plainly decorated. A fireplace sat at the far end opposite the black gleam of a piano. Beside it was a chaise lounge, its plush length occupied by a fair-haired man whose features were obscured by both the room's shadows and a large book. Beyond the windows sat the ever-present forest, a hulking and motionless beast of shadows.

But Alec only took a passing notice of these things, for his eyes were immediately pulled to the two wing-backed chairs that sat facing the fire, imposing as thrones. The chairs were similar, save for a pale, feminine hand draped across the arm of the one farthest from the window.

Standing before the hearth was the stranger who had introduced himself as Edward Cullen, his crimson eyes watching calmly as the boy took in his surroundings. Alec met his gaze and gasped.

"You both certainly took your time," he observed, smiling blandly at Alec's horror.

"We can't all flash through the house like a demon," Jacob retorted.

Edward scowled. "Alexander. I hope you can appreciate the trouble I went to in order to get you here." He gestured to him with his hand. "Come."

Alec hesitated, uncertain, and Edward's eyes narrowed. "Come here," he repeated firmly.

Slowly, Alec moved toward him, the heat of the fire growing stronger, his eyes fixed upon that pale, limp hand.

"Isabella," Edward said, looking down to the other chair's occupant as Alec drew closer. "I've brought you something different."

In later years, Alec would remember her as the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. In the moment, however, her beauty was the second thing he noticed.

Black, he thought immediately, terror overtaking him. Her eyes are black and his are red.

"Odd things tuck themselves away here," Grandma Stengle had told him.

Those black eyes stared up at him from the delicate contours of the beautiful face from the portrait, the woman's features even more stunning up close. Her inky lashes and delicate brows were striking against the bloodless pallor of her skin, her hair a mass of blacks and browns and reds in the fire's light, its waves piled atop her head in a loose twist. She was small, delicate — perfectly feminine and fragile beneath that a dress of white linen. Dark, bruise-like shadows circled her eyes, underscoring the pitch of her irises.

"He doesn't speak," Edward continued, vigilantly watching her face. "Does that please you, my love?"

Isabella ignored him, regarding Alec expressionlessly. The silence of the room was broken only by the gentle crackle of flames, the thundering of his pulse.

After a moment, Edward's shoulders slumped. "You are here to provide a service, Alexander," he sighed. "Has it been explained to you?"

"He's a kid, Cullen," Jacob interrupted sharply.

Edward ignored him.

Jacob huffed a disgusted laugh. "You're sick."

"Careful," warned the man reclined on the settee without looking up from his book.

Edward kept his eyes fixed on Isabella. "I'm sorry we've offended your delicate sensibilities, mongrel. You're free to leave, of course."

"You know I'm not," the young man growled.

"The treaty is unbroken. No one is being turned."

Jacob's mouth curled into a bitter, mirthless smile. "Might as well. At least this one's already mute."

In an instant, Edward was across the room, slamming him into the wall. Plaster cracked behind the boy's dark head as his attacker's pale fingers wrapped around his neck, lifting the boy's large frame with one hand as Jacob bared his teeth, twisting his body in an attempt to escape.

"Edward," the other man interrupted from behind his book. He sounded bored. "Enough."

"Stay out of this, Jasper," Edward seethed, but there was a thud as Jacob dropped to the floor.

Alec watched in shock, feeling each ripple of the growls that filled the room.

"Since you told the boy nothing," Edward snapped, "Isabella will simply show him."

There was a blur of motion and cold as Edward moved back the fireplace, his icy hand clamped onto the back of Alec's neck, forcing him to his knees. His cold fingers worked quickly against Alec's wrist, pulling up the sleeve to expose the boy's forearm.

"This will be unpleasant," he intoned calmly, holding the boy's arm across Isabella's lap.

Alec struggled against him, trying to extricate his hand from his captor's cold grip.

"Hold still," Edward instructed. "This will be over quickly."

Frantic, Alec craned his head, his eyes desperately seeking help from the still-prone Jacob or the bored-looking man behind his book. They came back to the beautiful creature in front of him as she stared down into his face. He felt a small twinge of hope — surely something so beautiful couldn't hurt him.

And then there was pain, panic overtaking him as the previously catatonic Isabella moved, buried her teeth into his flesh like a feral beast, her eyes closed tightly as she sucked at him with long, desperate pulls.

He opened his mouth to release a breathless wail, doubled over in pain and fighting Edward's grasp, Isabella's teeth as they sank further into his flesh.

"Poor thing," came the faint echo of Grandma Stengle's voice as the room spun around him. "Poor thing, poor thing, poor thing…"

And then darkness approached as there was a gasp, a release, a thud. He dropped to the floor, a rag doll discarded as his eyes rolled back, shutting themselves off from a new and frightening world.


	8. Jacob Speaks

_"But no one came. Because no one ever does." _

* * *

Alec opened his eyes to the blue bed's canopy once more.

Blinking and dizzy, he pushed himself up, wincing at the pain that shot through his arm. He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the angry lines of two crescent scars in the midst of an angry bruise.

"You're alive," Jacob muttered, hunched over in the bedside chair. Outside, the forest had faded with the sunlight, its shadows melting together into a shroud of darkness.

Alec looked down at his wrist, bewildered by what he remembered.

Fire, beauty, black eyes, red eyes. Teeth. Cold. Pain.

Jacob looked down at the decanter in his hands, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "No one's ever lived to see this part," he slurred. "Congratulations."

He took a long pull from the decanter.

"It's not right," he muttered. "Not right, bringing a kid into this."

Alec stared.

"And of course you're mute. Funny, bringing in a mute kid. Trying to get a rise out of her. Lucky you. Maybe that's why she didn't drain you."

Jacob raised the decanter the way Alec had seen other men raise their glasses, his eyes to the ceiling. "To Isabella," he toasted loudly. "To the beautiful, beautiful Isabella Swan and the way she used to laugh."

He downed several sloppy swallows of the amber liquid before stopping to take a breath.

"I'll bet you want to know what's going on here, right? You want answers. They all want answers, then she kills them and they don't care anymore. But you're not dead. Thing is, you may not believe me. Or maybe you will— what the hell does it matter? Either way, I'm giving you something for the dozen or so questions climbing all over that scrawny face of yours. But first—" he raised the decanter again. "To Isabella," he declared again. "May she someday rot in hell.

"Of course, she won't," he continued after taking another long pull. "Can't go to hell if you're not dead. Least not _that_ hell. That's something you'll find out if you're here long enough — and you probably won't be — but she and Cullen and any other bloodsuckers they bring around here, they don't get old. Twenty years and nothing's changed — not even me, but that can't be helped. Not when they're around. _Vampires_," he spat contemptuously.

_Vampires_, Alec echoed silently, his head spinning as he touched the tender skin of his wrist.

Jacob laughed at his bewilderment. "Don't believe me? You're the one who just got his blood sucked out of him. Funny thing, legends. Funny 'til they're true, at least. Leeches, all of them. And that's where you come in. They're hungry. They're always hungry, and she won't hunt. She just _sits_ there," he huffed. "Never says anything. Never does anything. Just lets him do as he wishes…" he made an obscene gesture that even Alec recognized. "Stupid bastard, playing house with his little doll of a wife like she knows where she is, trying to pretend he didn't break her the moment he bit her—"

"Enough."

The coldness of Edward Cullen's voice announced his presence only a moment before he stepped forward, materializing from the shadows of the doorway like a specter, a stern and angry angel of death. Alec flinched back into the bed, watching as Jacob's mouth flattened into an angry line.

"Well, look who decided to show up," he muttered.

"What is this, Jacob?"" Edward asked, his bland tone belied by the ominous, angry lines of his posture. His eyes were black stones in a pale and furious face. "Some sort of test of my patience?"

"You'd hear me even if I didn't say it."

"I can block your thoughts. Your drunken ramblings are harder to ignore."

Jacob shrugged. "I don't care anymore."

"Clearly."

"You're so high-and-mighty out here," Jacob spat. "But she was my friend before she was your wife. She was my friend back when she _chose_ things."

Edward's jaw tensed even further. "Enough," he said again.

"Or what?"

He shrugged. "I finish this."

Jacob said nothing.

"So, you've finally given up," Edward observed, coming closer to Jacob's place by the bed. Instinctively, Alec shrank away. "But why slaughter a pig as his peers watch? Even dumb animals know to avoid the butcher." He looked down at Jacob with a sneer. "At least, some of them do."

"Kill me, then. She'll never forgive you."

"She's none of your concern," Edward sneered.

As Alec watched, Jacob opened his mouth to retort before shutting it promptly, the fire of a fight dying in his eyes.

The vampire's brow arched. "No argument?"

"I would argue," he rejoined quietly. "I would if I still believed that monster you keep upstairs bears more than a passing resemblance to Isabella Swan. I know, I know," Jacob continued defiantly. "I'm not to speak of her that way. But then, why not? It's all over anyway."

Silence descended on the room, smothering all but Alec's shallow breaths.

"I'll give you one last chance," Edward told him in a low voice. "Leave here. Go back to La Push. Marry a mutt."

The young man laughed bitterly, ignoring him. "My last chance. Did I ever have a first? You've taken her from me. Twice." He sighed. "You're always taking her from me."

Edward remained where he stood, and the light came back to Jacob's eyes.

"Do it," he snapped. "Put me out of my misery." For a moment, there was silence. Jacob looked to the ceiling. "And don't stop with me."

Edward struck.

Alec watched, his gut twisting at the flash of pale skin and white teeth and red blood. There was a growl, a crunch, a snap, a dull thud as Jacob's head landed and rolled across the floor, his body falling to land beside it.

The vampire straightened, the pallor of his skin making him seem to glow in the moonlight. Alec looked down at Jacob's slack and lifeless face, the dark eyes bulging as if caught off guard by their owner's fate.

"That's been a long time coming," Edward sighed, straightening his shirt cuff as he surveyed the carnage on the floor. "Are you good with a shovel, Alexander?"

* * *

**With the exception of the poem at the beginning of the prologue, all quotes at the top of each chapter are from Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure," whose title character has lent his last name to our Alec, and whose author has lent some of his melancholy to our story.**


	9. The Visitor

_"You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote. _

_And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while they were stoning him, could see Heaven opened. _

_Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you'll suffer yet!"_

* * *

The night was cold, made colder still by the chill that clung to Alec's sweat-drenched shirt. His lungs, unused to much effort, wheezed in protest as he pushed the spade into the damp soil of the clearing beyond the forest house. His body throbbed with exhaustion.

The forest was shrouded in ominous silence, the weight of it pulling the night sky down to rest upon Alec's tired shoulders like a yoke. He dug, making a hole large enough and deep enough to satisfy Edward's instructions, the urge to collapse almost overcoming him when his eyes caught a motion from the window above.

Edward gazed down at him, his face expressionless.

Alec kept digging.

* * *

Dawn turned the sky pink as he finished, and he fell to the earth, fatigue and fear twisting his lungs, tracking silent tears down his grimy cheeks as he looked up to the empty window.

"Hello."

Alec started as he looked down to see the blonde man from upstairs on the terrace steps. He was taller than he'd appeared on the settee, his face more severe in the light of day. Instead of the crimson Alec expected, his eyes were a tawny gold.

"You're exhausted," the man observed.

Alec nodded.

"My name is Jasper," he continued, his expression benign. "You may come inside and rest now."

Alec was on his feet in an instant, the dark interior embracing him both with cool and impassive arms as they entered. He followed Jasper up a first flight of stairs, hesitating as he recognized the hallway to the room with the blue-canopied bed. With a flash of horror, he wondered if Jacob's body was still on the floor where it had fallen.

"This is your room now," Jasper informed him, stopping before the door. "At least, until we can figure out what to do with you."

He noticed Alec's expression. "You're afraid. Why?"

Alec hesitated, his eyes fixed on the large bloodstain on the floorboards by the bed. Jacob was nowhere in sight. "Oh. That. Edward's disposing of the remains now. Does the sight of blood bother you?"

Alec shook his head slowly, recalling Jacob's defiance, the answer of Edward's cold rage.

"Very well." He turned to leave, but Alec reached out, touching the man's arm to stop him.

_Hungry_, Alec said, patting his stomach. Jasper frowned.

"I believe Jacob kept some food in the pantry. You may help yourself to it."

_Thank you_.

Jasper nodded, something like pity in his eyes before he turned away.

* * *

The house was silent.

After helping himself to the meager supplies in the pantry, Alec padded back to the bedroom, averting his gaze from the stained floor as he climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. Cold seeped in through the old walls, the grey sky's chill surrounding him and he could not stop shaking.

He thought of the room upstairs, of the fire and the wing-backed chairs, of Jasper's absent kindness and Edward's icy hands. He thought of Isabella, of her black eyes and red lips, and of her empty stare as Edward had shoved Alec to his knees, offering her Alec's arm like an angry bully. He thought of the way Edward had looked at her.

He remembered the sting of her teeth and the dizzying rush of his blood pulled into her waiting mouth. His wrist still screamed at him beneath the counterpane, sore from the strength of her jaws and the work of the shovel, and he wondered what had befallen the beautiful girl in the dining room portrait.

He thought of his mother, drunkenly stumbling in from a night with Mayor Thorsen to find him missing. Would she be sad? She was sad often, but her tears rarely coincided with his own misfortunes.

He thought of Grandma Stengle setting out iced tea for two, only to watch the ice cubes dissipate with every hour he didn't come. Did she know about this place? Did she know about the kind of people (even now, he could not think the word 'vampire' without feeling silly) that didn't age, whose eyes were terrible colors and whose skin was ice cold?

What if no one even noticed him missing?

The thought was enough to crash through the wall of his barely-held calm and he cried. He cried for home and for Jacob and for the woman in the portrait but mostly, he cried for himself.

* * *

Hours later, Alec awoke to a series of loud thuds and the shrieking of a woman's voice.

"Edward, mind that one — the Victrola!"

He slipped out of bed, tiptoeing over to open the door to peek into the empty hallway. The voices were louder here, echoing up the staircase from the foyer.

"I'm putting it outside."

"Oh no you're not. I paid good money for that, and if you think I'm going to spend my time here watching you sulk or play one of your godforsaken funeral dirges—"

She stopped.

Alec tensed at the sudden silence. After a moment, he moved away from the door and pulled it shut, flinching at the sound.

Immediately, there was a loud knock.

"Alec?" a woman's voice called from the other side of the door.

He looked around wildly, overcome by the impulse to hide. The door opened slowly as he fought to control his shallow breathing, his racing pulse.

She was taller than Alec, but only just, her diminutive height augmented slightly by a pair of bow heels. She was dressed for travel, her tiny frame enveloped in a fur-lined coat, a green faille hat resting atop her fashionably bobbed hair.

Her features were those of a waif, the shadows beneath her eyes and cheekbones giving her a decidedly gaunt air. She would have seemed frail were it not for her eyes — like Jasper's, golden and seemingly lit from behind.

"Hello," came her simple greeting.

Stunned, Alec managed a small nod.

They stood staring for what seemed like hours, his fear and her scrutiny dual swordsmen in an interminable standoff.

Finally, she spoke again:

"I'm going to like you."


	10. Announcement

Port Angeles Evening News, 1906

**Engagement Announced**

Port Angeles, W., May 16 — Announcement is made of the engagement of BENJAMIN D. CHENEY and Miss ISABELLA SWAN of Port Angeles, Wash. Mr. CHENEY has been identified with the automobile Industry in Southern California for several years and is at present manager of the White Garage company in Los Angeles.

Miss SWAN is a graduate of Annie Wright Upper School. The wedding will take place in Port Angeles in September, after which the bride and bridegroom will make their home in Los Angeles. Miss SWAN is regarded as a most valuable acquisition to the musical circles and social life of that city.


	11. Alice

_"Women are so strange in their influence _

_that they tempt you to misplaced kindness."_

* * *

Within the space of seven minutes, Alec learned three things: the tiny woman in the green hat was Alice, she was a force to be reckoned with, and Edward's scowl deepened when she was around.

"You can't keep a young boy locked in a dark room all day," she declared after dragging Alec down to the foyer.

Standing amidst a cavalcade of travel trunks, Edward growled. "This is not a hotel, Alice."

But she'd only rolled her eyes. "The problem with him," she stage-whispered to Alec, "is that he has never had a childhood of his own."

And so she insisted that Alec join the rest of the company to eat a light lunch in the sitting room, his scrawny frame in his dirty clothes perched awkwardly on a chaise lounge as he quietly chewed a ham sandwich. His eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on Alice, her small frame silhouetted by the dim grey light that found its way past the forest canopy.

Throughout the course of the afternoon, conversation between the four vampires was stilted and sparse, largely initiated by Alice in between lengthy _non sequiturs_ on a variety of seemingly unrelated subjects. Isabella had not moved from her place by the fire, settled into the chair with a dreamy, faraway look in her newly crimson eyes.

Beside her slumped Edward, his tall form draped across his chair with the insouciance of an emperor belied by his pronounced scowl. He looked at Isabella often, his eyes ablaze with a strange light as Alice paced the room, running her slim fingers over various surfaces, talking about everything and nothing at once.

"Perhaps Isabella needs a change of scenery," Alice mused from her place by the window. "This old house — it's positively gruesome how you've let it go. Don't you agree, Jasper?"

"Of course," he answered blandly.

"Jasper," Edward muttered. "If you care to be involve yourself in my affairs, you could at least speak in full sentences."

"That's just it, you see," Jasper sighed. "I don't care to be involved."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"I do not care to watch while you nurse Isabella's wounds for the rest of eternity, and I do not care to be torn apart by a pack of shifters because of your lack of control. But Alice cares enough for both of us. And so I stay."

"I know what we need," Alice said brightly, moving toward the Victrola.

Edward growled. "Alice."

"She'll like it."

"She doesn't like loud things."

Alice waved him off, cranking the phonograph's handle. "She doesn't like you yelling. She hasn't even heard this."

She moved across the room as the beginning notes sounded, a melancholy wail of piano and jazz horns building into a slow, easy rhythm. Alec blinked as she came to stand in front of him.

"Do you dance?" she asked him kindly.

He shook his head.

"You will," she replied, nonplussed. "Stand up."

Hesitantly, Alec obeyed, flinching as her cold fingers encircled his hand, flushing as she pulled him to the center of the room.

"Jasper's not much for modern dance," she explained, throwing a wink to the man in question.

"Not much for convulsive fits set to music, you mean," he rejoined with a smile.

"The Foxtrot is hardly a convulsion. Here." She pulled Alec closer, framing their bodies. "It's simple. You'll lead. Just step forward like this — slow, slow, quick-quick." She demonstrated. "Understand?"

Alec frowned, fumbling as he copied her. She laughed. "Never mind your nerves. You'll get better, and my toes can handle the abuse. Come on."

He complied, mere inches between her cold frame and his frail one as she guided him with small pulls and encouraging smiles. True to her word, she did not so much as flinch when he bungled his steps at the expense of her fashionably clad feet.

"I'm rather good at instruction, I think," she boasted airily after a few minutes passed with relatively few missteps. "Either that, or you're a natural. I'm sure all the girls back home think so."

Alec flushed, thinking of the girls in Sequim, of their private laughter and pitying glances. He'd noticed them, of course, his mind working overtime at the _Figure Photography_ images the boys at Mr. Olsen's traded like baseball cards, but was still at somewhat of a loss when it came to applying his scant knowledge of the female form to associating with the tidy girls in town.

"What do you say, Edward?" Alice continued. "He's a quick study, don't you think?"

"Alice," he sighed, resignation evident in his tone, his eyes not leaving the fireplace. "You're blocking me."

"Can't a girl try for some privacy without being accused of subterfuge?"

His silence was her answer.

Hours later, Alec dozed on the chaise lounge, his mind suspended somewhere between consciousness and sleep, its subconscious energy devoted to lazily sorting through the quiet voices in the room..

"Will the pack retaliate?" Edward.

"You know I can't see that," Alice replied quietly.

"I need to take her somewhere safe."

"You've destroyed an alpha," Jasper interjected. "Nowhere is going to be safe for long."

"Will you send the boy home?" Alice asked.

Edward huffed a short, sharp laugh. "And bring the Volturi down on my head as well?"

"He can't speak."

"He can't use his voice," Edward corrected.

"So he stays, but to what end?" Jasper sighed.

"Alice has seen Bella speak—"

Jasper interrupted him. "We don't know when, and we don't know why. Just because she didn't drain him—"

"It's something," Edward insisted in a low voice. "Twenty years, and only one vision… it's something."

"The vision could change," Jasper pointed out.

"She saw it because of the boy. He stays."

"There's still the problem of the tribe."

Alice spoke. "Edward, perhaps you should visit the city."

A growl. "Without her?"

"Yes."

"You told me to go last time," Edward snapped. "And look what happened."

Silence.

"You're blocking me again," he continued, suspicion coloring his tone. "What aren't you saying?"

"Anything I do is for the good of both of you."

"What do you see if he stays?" Jasper asked.

"I don't know," she fretted softly. "I don't know."

Their voices faded, murmurs of worry and planning and desperation as Alec left those somnolent shadowlands, slipping into the thick and consuming silence of slumber.


	12. An Interregnum

_"Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to animals and birds, and read all you can."_

* * *

The days in the forest house ran together like a long, unbroken string of dreams.

Each morning, Alec woke as the first rays of sunrise peeked through his window, stretching in the musty bed as he reacquainted himself to this new world in which legends were true and ageless monsters looked like people and lived off of blood.

He spent hours each day in the sitting room as a supervised novelty. Alice alternately treated him like a pet or a source of entertainment, something to be coddled and made much of. Jasper was perpetually indifferent, his golden eyes seeming to look right through Alec on the rare occasion he glanced in the boy's direction. Edward often stared at him with an odd sort of impatience.

Often, conversation between the three became cryptic and stilted, occurring at intervals between long bouts of silence, the jazz of Alice's phonograph, or melancholy compositions performed by Edward at the sitting room's piano. Little thought, if any, seemed to be given to Alec's entertainment until his fourth morning at the house.

"Here," Alice said, placing a worn copy of _Swinton's Second Reader_ in his lap. "Reading keeps the mind sharp."

No one had ever considered Alec especially sharp to begin with, but he took the reader and began to spend his days thusly, tracing the sentences until they were practically committed to memory.

_I'm a goose_, he read. _A big goose, and these are my little ones._

_We swim in the pond. We can walk, and we can fly a little._

_Get wet? Oh no! When we come out of the pond, we are as dry as can be!_

_One morning a bad boy began to throw stones at us. _

_I ran after him, but could not catch him._

Occasionally, Alice accompanied him outside, allowing him explore the woods as she looked on with an air of indulgence.

"Boys can't be expected to sit inside all the time," she told him with a smile, and he felt the kindness of it warm him.

As attentive as Alice was, however, and for all the detached tolerance of the rest of the company, Alec could not ignore the unsettling darkening of their eyes as the days wore on, tawny and crimson irises fading gradually to the all-consuming pitch that had so startled him in the moments before Isabella's teeth ripped into his skin.

He sometimes cried for home again in the moments before sleep came. As the long days in the forest house wore on, however, the tears began to feel odd and misplaced, as though he were grieving only the passing of a childish dream.

* * *

The twelfth morning started like any other as Alec climbed the stairs to the sitting room, his mind set on the copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ he'd noticed on the bookshelf by Jasper's settee.

His curiosity had been piqued by the title, his mind replaying the memory of one of the older boys at school referencing the book as a grand adventure. Grander, surely, than the primer sentences in _Swinton's Second Reade_r. Surely, Alice would not begrudge lending him the book.

These were his thoughts as he entered the sitting room, so preoccupied that the sound of the Victrola only barely alerted him to the possibility that Alice might spend the morning testing him on recently learned Foxtrot steps—

He stopped short, his mouth opening in a soundless gasp of surprise.

Both of the chairs by the fireplace were empty and Isabella stood, alone in the sitting room and silhouetted against the window, her pale hand pressed against the pane as the tinny sounds of jazz filled the room.

_Turn to the right,_ Gene Austin crooned.

_There's a little white light_

_Will lead you to my Blue Heaven…_

Alec stood frozen, transfixed by every graceful line of her, the tendrils of hair against her neck, the slender, elegant fingers resting upon the glass—

"Alec."

Startled, he spun around to find Jasper watching him from the foot of the narrow staircase.

"Come away from there," he commanded sternly. "And close the door."

Alec obeyed, but not before sneaking one last glance at the exquisite, forlorn figure by the window.

* * *

"You're bursting with something," Alice observed later that morning, her lips curved into a small smile as she scrutinized Alec's face.

They had circled the clearing once already to indulge Alec's penchant for capturing and releasing the various creepy-crawlies that lived in the nooks and crannies of the forestland; although she had walked beside him in previous excursions, today she kept her distance, stiffening whenever Alec came within a few feet of her.

Nonetheless, he was grateful for both her company and the opportunity to uncover the reason behind the break in their daily sitting room routine.

_Isabella_, he mouthed, his eyes flitting briefly to where a pale face could still be seen behind the glass of the third story window. Alice followed his gaze.

"She doesn't like it when Edward leaves," she sighed. "She becomes… unpredictable."

_Edward — gone?_ he asked.

"Yes. To Seattle, I suspect."

_Isabella talks now?_ Alec asked, pointing to his own mouth. Alice shook her head.

"No, but I believe she must, and soon. 'The two great laws of life are growth and decay,' even for us." She smiled at Alec's confusion. "Does that confuse you? Poor chappy, always listening to me speak in quotes and riddles."

Alec stood still, waiting. She was silent for several long moments, staring up at the woman in the window, a faraway look in her eyes before she continued.

"You will discover something for yourself one day," she told him thoughtfully. "And when you do, I hope you will remember this moment. For some, love is a cure. And for others it is a sickness. And some consign it to the occasional ache, or a rare flight of joy. But some… lose themselves. Do you understand?"

He didn't, but nodded anyway.

She looked down into his face. "I don't know exactly why Bella doesn't speak," she mused. "But I have my theories on the matter. And I do think she will speak someday. Do you know why?"

Alec shook his head.

"Neither do I. But her future changed once Edward decided to bring you to this house." She sighed again. "Only time will tell."

She gave him another comforting smile and he returned it, trying not to flinch as he met her nearly black eyes.

They walked on in companionable silence, their quiet broken only by the sounds of their own footsteps and the faint, faraway wail of the Victrola.

* * *

**Alice's quote is from Charles R. Gow, the author of "Elemental Principles of Industrial Economics." (1923)**


	13. The Portrait

_"—the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl, _

_quite unfitted by temperament and instinct _

_to fulfil the conditions of the matrimonial relation with Phillotson, _

_possibly with scarce any man…" _

* * *

Alec woke to darkness, his stomach rumbling. From upstairs, he could still hear the faint sounds of Alice's phonograph.

He slipped out of bed, padding his way downstairs to the pantry. The cavernous rooms were considerably eerier in the moonlight, and he fought a shudder.

Suddenly he stopped, brought up short by the sight in the dining room.

Isabella stood beneath the portrait above the fireplace, a vision of white and moonlight, her eyes fixed upon her likeness.

In spite of his wariness, her presence beckoned him like a beacon. He moved toward her slowly, trying not to think of the angry burn of Edward Cullen's eyes. The thought caused his pulse to speed further, its raucous rhythm thrumming in a deafening crescendo as he approached. His eyes stayed on the ghostly pallor of her profile.

He was a breath away from touching her arm when she suddenly moved, turning her head to look at him. Her black eyes took him in, impassive, impenetrable. Her delicate brows furrowed slightly, but made no further move.

Frozen, Alec took breath, trying to escape the blush that raged beneath his cheeks at the silent scrutiny of those terrible eyes. Monster or not, her beauty devastated him.

She turned toward him, her face a blank as she reached for him. The ice of her fingers brushed his cheeks, cradling his head between her palms.

Questioning, terrified, he waited. She closed her eyes.

There was a rush, a breath.

A sensation of falling and a swallowing darkness.

And then he saw.

* * *

_1905_

It was a bright and balmy evening, one of the last gifts of a summer taking its time to part sweetly, a guest whose company would be sorely missed and who did not want to leave. The sun was setting with indulgent brilliance, sea and sky set afire with the hues of a passion flower, and even the clouds eschewed their simple pallor in favor of the rich violets and crimsons, the colors reflected upon a placid sea as it washed them toward the shore.

On the beach stood Isabella Swan, newly seventeen and every bit as beautiful as local rumor claimed, yearning to feel the familiar grit of sand beneath her bare feet instead of its slickness under her dance slippers.

Beside her, Eric Yorkie stared as she watched at the horizon. He was an unlikely Lothario, lanky and plain with ears that stuck out just a bit too far, but he made up for any lack of charm with a dogged, devoted determination.

He'd tried to speak to her that afternoon at the picnic, only to have his attempts rebuffed by Tom Crowley and her cousin Michael. Now that the opportunity to engage her freely had presented itself, he seemed ill-equipped for the task.

"You enjoy looking at the ocean?" he asked, his words tumbling over one another like clumsy children.

Isabella smiled. "Yes."

"It's… it's not half as pretty as you are."

"That's kind of you."

"It's true," he insisted. "I've been longing to speak to you alone, to tell you— to tell you—" he stopped, flushing. "Bella, you _must_ know what I'm trying to say."

"Eric—" she began softly, but he kept on.

"I've loved you since— since— Bella, I can't remember a time I didn't love you! And I know I don't have much in the way of anything—"

"Eric, please—"

"—but I must ask if you'd consent to being my wife."

She sighed, looking out toward the fading glories of the sunset. After several moments, he wilted, the pity in her profile his answer.

"If you think your father wouldn't approve—"

"I know he wouldn't," she interrupted gently.

He bristled. "Is there someone else? Is it Cheney? Or the redskin?"

"Jacob is my friend. I'll not have you speak of him in that fashion."

"Of course," he huffed, the poison of rejection corroding his civility. "But know this—"

"Isabella!" Michael called from the lighthouse steps. She frowned.

"Go," Eric muttered, flushed with embarrassment, hard eyes fixed upon the horizon. She looked at him a moment more, searching for words that would graciously extricate her from his wounded company. There were none.

"What's the matter, Baby Bella?" Michael jovially demanded as she came up the steps. "Another tryst gone wrong?"

"They all go wrong," she answered absently.

Her cousin laughed. "You incorrigible flirt. They all ask you to marry them, you mean."

She ignored him, looking up to the gaily-lit pavilion at the top of the stairs, its edges bursting with the light of paper lanterns and the sounds of laughter and music.

"Save me a dance, will you?" Michael asked as she took his arm. "As your cousin, it's only right I do my duty to shield you from your broken-hearted swains."

"Of course," she replied, stealing a last pitying look at the lonely silhouette of Eric Yorkie, his eyes still fixed stubbornly on the dying sun.

* * *

The party that evening was a triumph, replete with dancing, trysting, and Michael Newton's brogue for a comical rendition of 'I Love A Lassie.'

In spite of the revelry, Bella remained a bored and distracted presence, absently accepting invitations to dance and leaving her partners frustrated by her preoccupation. Eventually, she retreated to the outskirts of the fête, rebuffing would-be suitors with an unapologetic shake of her head.

"Bella," Annie Brewer cried, emerging from the dance floor to accost her as the musicians began an upbeat waltz. "You jilted Eric Yorkie!"

Bella groaned. "Who told you?"

"Eleanor saw you two walking on the beach, you goose," Annie laughed. "He's been in love with you since the day he was born. What did he say? Did he cry?"

Annoyed, Bella opened her mouth to reply, only to have the words die away as her gaze snapped to a young man and woman at the top of the pavilion steps, surveying the revelers impassively.

Though the music continued, several couples closest to the entrance stilled, eyeing the strangers with open curiosity. Bella's eye noted the sophistication of their features, the impeccable stylishness of their attire and the lack of any sign of nerves that might normally accompany the act of appearing at a local soirée uninvited.

Both were beautiful, the man tall and lanky, his blonde hair slightly too long to be fashionable, his handsome face guarded. The woman beside him was doll-like, barely reaching her companion's shoulder and, although elegantly garbed, her dark hair was strikingly short, falling in soft waves to just below her jaw.

Michael was the first to approach them, his smile wary and welcoming as he offered the man his hand. Bella watched with interest as he made the proper introductions, wondering about the best way to ask the woman about the exquisite lace sleeves of her dress—

And then promptly forgot about the dress altogether as another man entered the pavilion, coming to stand beside the newcomers.

He was startlingly handsome, tall and trim, his patrician features pulled into a severe scowl beneath a mop of hair the color of autumn leaves. His pursed mouth spoke of chronic ennui. The frown only intensified as Michael shook his hand, whatever her cousin was saying seeming to bore him further and he looked past him to survey the room.

His gaze found hers, boredom giving way to shock as his eyes pinned her to the spot like a butterfly on a mounting board, their irises a tawny golden brown.

"Isabella," Michael called, waving her over to where they stood. With a foreign nervousness, she approached.

"Mrs. Whitlock, gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to my cousin, Ms. Isabella Swan — the loveliest girl on the OP."

Bella felt her cheeks go red at Michael's compliment, paid in his usual oblivious bluster. She glanced at the auburn-haired man to find that his eyes had not left her face, and her color deepened.

"Bella, this is Mr. Jasper Whitlock and his wife, and her brother, Mr. Cullen."

"Edward," Mr. Cullen corrected, watching her intently.

"A pleasure," she replied, bowing her head politely.

"The pleasure is ours. That's a lovely dress," Mrs. Whitlock said warmly, her strange eyes taking in the lines of Bella's white summer frock.

"Thank you. Perhaps it's a bit late in the season for it, but I'm loathe to bid the summer farewell."

There was a round of polite agreement at her statement from all but Edward, his expression inscrutable as he continued to stare.

"You're traveling through, then — where did you say you were from?" Michael asked, his eyes on Mr. Cullen.

But Edward ignored him, his eyes still fixed on Bella as he offered her his hand.

"May I have a dance, Ms. Swan?"

* * *

**There will be no update for a few days, as I'll be traveling, so... I'm doubling up today. **

**Thank you for reading! Your reviews make my heart happy.**

**Find me on twitter at hollelujahs.**


	14. Echoes of the Past

_"Jude continued his walk homeward alone, _

_pondering so deeply that he forgot to feel timid."_

_1905_

"I have never in my life seen a man so handsome," Annie gushed as they walked to the Swan home after the party. "I could hate you for monopolizing him all night, you know. Just you wait, the minute Benjamin Cheney whisks you away to California, I'm going to snatch up your Mr. Cullen up for myself."

Beside her, Bella remained silent, a sudden heat creeping up her neck in spite of the frigid winter night. If her companion noticed the tightening of Bella's fingers around her arm, she did not show it.

She remembered the chill of Edward's touch as they danced, the bold scrutiny of his eyes, the undercurrents in his voice that seemed to call her name whenever he spoke.

"I need to see you again," he'd told her in low, urgent tones as the dance came to an end, his breath cool on her overheated skin.

Bella had stiffened, astonished at his boldness but he remained undeterred, holding her tightly against him. "Say I can call on you."

She could only nod dumbly, but it had been enough to make lips curve into a small smile as he'd released her.

Now, Annie prattled on, playfully enumerating her intentions for the enigmatic Mr. Cullen as Bella realized with some dismay that the thought of him touching Annie — touching anyone else — was very, very disagreeable.

Reverend Swan was a severe and handsome man, his age settled into dignified features and the deep-set eyes he shared with his daughter and greying the dark wing of his hair. He was respected enough in Port Angeles, his manners characteristic of an evangelist of his day: dogmatic and agreeable, with enough of a temper and a reputation for not suffering fools — or many of Bella's suitors — gladly.

"I see that your night of revelry has taken its toll," he observed to his daughter the morning after the pavilon dance, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of Georgius, the red morgan gelding pulling the one-hoss shay into town.

Isabella, preoccupied with the memory of golden eyes the night before, replied with only an absent hum.

"Michael tells me that Eric Yorkie made you an offer."

"Yes."

"Were you alone with him?"

"Of course not!" she huffed, grabbing the carriage frame as they descended the hill into town. "Heaven forbid I jeopardize the attentions of a San Francisco Cheney."

"If you insist on being defiant then by all means, tie yourself to one of the local lumberjacks. Perhaps one of the fishermen will have you."

"Jacob Black made me an offer once," she retorted, thinking of the hope in Jacob's eyes when he'd asked for her hand years before, only to be replaced by a young and impotent rage when Charles Swan had laughed in his face. "What of him?"

The reverend scowled, flicking the horse's reins with unnecessary vigor. "Isabella," he sighed wearily. "Please don't be ridiculous."

"It's a bit cold to be reading outside."

Lounging on the porch swing with a book, Bella's head snapped up to find Edward Cullen not six feet away, his imposing form silhouetted by the dreariness of the evening on the front steps of her parents' home.

Stunned, she hastily brought her legs down from the swing, straightening her skirts beneath the lap rug and hoping she did not appear as disheveled as she felt.

"I hope I'm not bothering you."

"No— no, not at all. My parents have gone up the way for the Christmas concert in town—"

"I know."

"You do?"

He did not reply, but took a seat on her mother's rocking chair, his long, elegant limbs rendering the furniture almost comically rustic. She took in the rain-spattered lapels of his Chesterfield coat and trousers, the stylish Homburg hat that covered the autumn shades of his hair.

She wondered what he thought of her family's much-beloved property, of the lush green land giving way to mossy rock before dropping off entirely, the beauty of the bluffs below the home constantly buffeted by an angry silver sea.

"Did you walk here?" Bella asked suddenly.

"Yes." He seemed amused. "One only has to ask about the prettiest girl on the OP to receive detailed directions to this house."

His sardonic echo of Michael's words made her blush, a heavy silence descending as she grasped for something clever to say. She pictured him in the city, his smart attire and obscene good looks drawing the interest of women who were prettier, smarter, bolder and more accomplished…

She would have felt no less tongue-tied had the rocking chair held the King of England.

"So this is how we begin," Edward mused quietly, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside her, his golden eyes tracing the features of her face. "Which book are you reading?"

Bella frowned, shaken by the odd rhythm of his conversation. "Oh, um… _Five Little Peppers_."

Edward smirked. "I asked for the title of the book you're reading, not the one you're using to hide it."

She looked down to see the corner of the novel she'd hidden within the children's book peeking out, but only barely. "It's… it's supposed to be a secret."

"I've been told I can keep a secret."

Hesitant, she showed him the book cover.

"_Á rebours_?I'm not sure your parents would approve."

"They wouldn't."

"'He cried, in his outraged pity: If a god has made this world, I should not wish to be that God. The world's wretchedness would rend my heart.'"

"You've read it?"

He shrugged. "I didn't walk all the way here to discuss French literature. Let's talk of more substantial things."

"I— you—" she began, finally dissembling beneath the unwavering intensity of his eyes. "You're very odd."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps I seem odd because I have little tolerance for wasting time."

"Or good manners."

"You're not courting any of the local boys, are you?"

There was a strange energy that seemed to surround him, an incandescence that pulled at something in her chest. Here was a creature wholly unlike the boys of her acquaintance — Jacob Black with his boyish enthusiasm, Eric Yorkie and his awkward, earnest declarations. She felt an affinity to Edward Cullen, one that simultaneously soothed and frightened her.

There was a sudden flash of dismay as she remembered Benjamin's stolid features — _a Cheney of the San Francisco Cheneys_, she snidely thought in her mother's voice.

"Isabella," Edward prompted, startling her out of her reverie. She blinked, grasping for an answer that would not excessively encourage or discourage his attentions, confused and exhilarated by his blunt persistence.

"None of the local boys," she told him, looking out over the bluffs.

Edward nodded. "Good."

"Why do you care?" she wondered. "We're practically strangers."

A look of surprise crossed his handsome features. "Are we? Yes, I suppose so, according to the standards of some."

"But not by others'?"

He smiled again. "By other standards, I've known you for years."

She frowned. "You're making fun of me."

"Then I'll speak plainly: we won't be strangers for long."

"You seem so certain."

"I am."

"How can you be?" she demanded tartly. "Perhaps I'll drop dead tomorrow."

"I'd never allow it. Now, can _you_ keep a secret?"

She nodded, feeling very much like Alice descending into the rabbit hole.

"What would you do if I told you that I've seen my future and that in it, you're never happier than when we are together?"

"I'd congratulate you on an excellent imagination," she retorted, laughing at the absurd confidence of his words. But her pulse sped at the thought, and he smiled as if he could hear it.

"We'll see."

**Both Reverend Swan's conveyance and the name of his horse are nods to Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.'s "The Deacon's Masterpiece." **

**Thanks for your patience while our family was on vacation! Another big thanks to all you who've rec'd or reviewed, just because those things really, truly make my day. **

**Updates may come a bit slower now, but don't worry — we'll be done soon. **


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